Free Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander Page A

still retain some of its tan? How would Pa look in years to come if he’d been buried instead of burnt? How many years before there was no flesh, only bone?
    I had suggested to Mum that I should be one of the people to deliver a eulogy. I’d seen enough of them in films to know what was required. My mother considered this for some time – two days in fact – before letting me down gently. This was an adult occasion, she said, and as I would be the only child present, it did not feel acceptable that I should take on the additional burden of speaking in front of a room full of people I barely knew. She explained her fear that others might assume she’d forced me into it, too shaken, or too selfish, to get up and speak for herself. In the end, she decided that one of Pa’s former colleagues, Bill, and Pa’s brother, Vincent, might be the best to speak, for, at the end of it all, surely it was they who knew her father better than most. This was despite the fact that Mum forbade me from speaking with Vincent, who, she said, was the devil incarnate.
    I had no suit to wear and there was no time or money to get measured for a new one, so I chose a pair of black stone-wash jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. The only shoes I had were pointed, shiny faux leather, ones I’d begged Mum to buy me the previous year and now only barely fitted.
    â€˜Mum?’ I asked, feeling I looked nowhere near mournful enough, ‘is this okay?’
    â€˜Yes, sweetie, it’s respectful and your Pa would appreciate that.’
    â€˜But it’s exactly what I wore to a stupid school disco. Isn’t it blasphemous to wear to a funeral?’
    â€˜Ah honey, you’re so lovely. First up, we’re not religious and neither was Pa, so there’s no such thing as blasphemy in this house. And secondly, to be honest with you, Tommy, I need to wear my work clothes because they’re the only black I’ve got.’
    â€˜Really?’ I said and forced a smile, loving it when our eyes connected like that.
    â€˜Yeah. And you know, come to think of it, I reckon Pa would get a little kick out of that idea too. Don’t you think?’
    As the evil Great Uncle Vince spoke of what a special, loving man his brother was, of his warmth and generosity and how he watched out for his younger siblings like a sentinel, standing guard whenever danger approached, I thought about those words and tried to make a connection to the old man I’d known. Each adjective washed over me but did not connect, foreign in its application to grumpy, silent old Pa, but when I thought of our last conversation and the spark that had glowed between us, I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d missed out on. Finally a topic had bonded us, a glimpse of a relationship that each of us could embrace and nurture.
    I sat forlorn but half expecting the great Hepburn to make her grand shaky entrance to say goodbye to her long-distant cousin, Pa. She’d march right up there to that tiny stage and regale them all with fabulous stories of old Hollywood, and the early Houghtons, and she’d make that exquisite connection between her fabulous life and our ordinary one.
    But of course she never came and now other words of Vince’s struck a more familiar chord – proud, honest, hard-working. Vince spoke of Pa’s love for his wife, a forty-year union that nothing came close to breaking, and he mentioned their wedding, and how Pa got up to sing his new bride a song he’d written. For me, this was the most astonishing revelation of all.
    Bill, his ex-colleague, spoke of yet another person. A man with a hunger for success; never content to surrender or accept the status quo. This wasn’t the Pa who whittled away his hours alone in the garage with his old mate, his true friend, a flagon of port. Surprisingly, Bill also spoke of his keen sense of humour, of how Pa would have all the workers in fits of laughter,